


Iron to Iron

by tielan



Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Catharsis, Fighting, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-17
Updated: 2004-12-17
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:46:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tielan/pseuds/tielan
Summary: As iron sharpens iron,So one woman sharpens another.





	Iron to Iron

**lightning and thunder**

It was felt the moment she was seen in the corridors, the arch of her wings framing her from behind, an angel come down from heaven. Superman walked beside her, Green Lantern didn’t quite flank her, and Vixen walked behind them all - stalked, rather.

And the woman who was the cause and centre of this scene appeared serene as she lifted one hand to brush fiery hair from her eyes before it returned to the handle of her mace. She cradled the weapon like a child, held as tenderly and fiercely as a lover, but the sharper-eyed denizens of the Watchtower saw the white knuckles of the seemingly casual grip. For all her outward ease, Shayera Hol was terrified.

As they walked from the transporter chamber to the meeting room, nobody challenged them. Change was in the air, rustling through the ventilation system like the prescience of a storm before the first thunder struck.

During a storm, it was always wise to stay away from lightning rods.

Still, nobody was in possession of so much willpower that they were willing to miss the confrontation, for confrontation there would be. It would take a blind man - and more than just blind: deaf, dumb, lobotomised and insensate - not to realise that the pressure was building and that something would break.

They rounded a corner and came upon the two who paused in the passageway, then planted their feet as one. Dark and scarlet heels rested square against the floor, and the setting of their boots was like gentle thunder rumbling.

Once thunder has been heard, the lightning has already struck.

**the quick and the dead**

Shayera fought the urge to turn around and go back to the transporter room, meekly and quietly, without a fight. But she had nowhere to turn, not with Superman by her side and John at her back.

She couldn’t go backwards, and she didn’t want to step forwards.

Checkmate.

So she held her position, preparing to dig in for the long haul.

And she looked at Diana.

Batman wasn’t relevant here; for all that he was the more forbidding presence of the two, it wasn’t his rage that fuelled the confrontation about to take place.

Had Diana always been so formidable, or was it just the presence of the man at her shoulder that made her seem so? No, Shayera decided, looking at the icy cast of the oval face with all the detachment she could muster; the Amazon had changed in the time since Shayera’s departure. Not much, but enough that the sight of her now, beautiful features set in stiff fury, was terrifying.

Once, months ago, years ago, Shayera would have bared her teeth and leapt into the fray, willing to take on the Amazon - and the Dark Knight, too, if need be. Now, she didn’t even want to see the look in Diana’s eyes, representative of so much that Shayera had lost.

John had been lover, betrayed; Superman, Flash, J’onn, Batman - they’d been team-mates, betrayed; but Diana--

Diana had been _friend_ , betrayed. In the parlance of the Amazons, she had been sister. In the manner of Diana’s upbringing, men could be friends but her fellow female warriors were _family_. And when family was lost to you - who else did you have to turn to?

Shayera understood Diana’s refusal to take her back. She wished she didn’t.

All her bridges were burned, barely the husk of them left: fiancé, lover, team-mate, friends, people.

She hoped - by all that was worthy and sacred to her, she hoped - that she would never have to face another of her people again. Her betrayal was unforgivable and Thanagarians were not, by nature, forgiving.

Themiscyrans, from all Shayera had witnessed of Diana and her people, were not forgiving by nature either.

With the cold calculation that had been her ally in five years of lies, Shayera knew that Batman’s objection to her return had been professional: once betrayed, twice wary. Then, too, despite all evidence to the contrary, Bruce Wayne _was_ human and brought up in a society that believed in innocence before guilt, that hoped for forgiveness before outcasting. Even in his own pursuit of justice, Batman never killed - and therein lay his inclinations.

Diana was neither human, nor brought up in the kind of compassion so distinct to ‘Man’s World’ - a second chance, a hope of redemption. The Amazons were exacting of themselves and each other, and to fail was to fall - as Diana’s own outcasting from Themiscyra had shown. It was a simpler, more brutal mindset, and one that had served them so well in thousands of years, unchanging.

Yes, upbringing could be fought, and walls built to insulate against the tenets of childhood; but even the strongest of walls must leak against the pressure, if only a little.

The faced each other, the proud and the cowed.

Shayera felt the weight of Grundy’s death, like a physical pressure on her sternum, like weights hung on her wings; she was ashes, dust and bones; like Grundy, dead, and seeking peace.

And, like Grundy, they had woken her from her rest.

Would Diana consent to send her back to the grave?

 _Your thoughts are morbid, Shayera,_ J’onn said, clearly into her mind, and she looked up as the telepath moved smoothly into the midst of the confrontation. _You were not dead, merely resting. The Sleeping Beauty waiting for the moment to awaken._

A bitter humour rose within her breast, a tightening ache in her stomach as she regarded him. _My ‘prince’ is gone, J’onn._ That was true enough. Whether Hro or John, her prince had moved on from her. _I would rather sleep again._

 _Would you?_ J’onn questioned, and she felt anger tense her body, briefly, the faintest spark of life before it was lost to the enveloping ash of her guilt.

“I believe we should adjourn to the meeting room,” J’onn said out loud, and he moved through the crowds, parting people as he went.

Shayera followed him - where else did she have to go?

And the League fell in behind her; her gaolers, her friends.

There was nowhere else to turn.

**the first and the last**

It was curious, Batman supposed, how even Vixen hesitated at entering the room. She paused on the threshold and John turned to her before she could take that step, asking for a few minutes. Flash zipped in past them, a blur of colour and energy, and the doors closed over the model’s beautiful dark face, her tip-tilted eyes narrow, her posture tense.

It didn’t take a detective - world’s greatest or otherwise - to tell that there were troubling times ahead in the League.

Batman took his seat at the briefing room table; and a mirthless smile touched his lips for one swift moment. Seven chairs, as always. And seven people to fill them.

He wondered if any of the others realised that they’d always kept seven seats at the table, an unconscious acknowledgement of their missing team-mate. Absent, but not wholly departed; buried, but not entirely dead; forgiven, but not completely forgotten.

As fleetingly as the smile rested on his mouth, it vanished.

Perhaps he should have said, ‘forgotten, but not completely forgiven.’

Diana stalked behind him on her way to her chair, carriage erect, chin lifted, every inch the princess of her people, every molecule the enraged Amazon of legend, and far, far more dangerous than Aresia had ever been.

“Are we to get an explanation for this?” Diana inquired, in tones of fire and ice, barely taking her seat.

“Shayera helped us bring in Grundy,” Clark stated evenly, as if he recognised that he was the one who could best weather this storm. Diana’s respect for him surpassed all others, even Bruce acknowledged he came a distant second. “She was voted back in at the end of the Thanagarian occupation, and is free to rejoin the Justice League if she wishes.”

His calm seemed impervious in the face of Diana’s rage. He could be confident in the fact that he was both immune to anything Diana might try to do to him physically, and that her nature did not stoop to tearing him down. Her rage was hot: fire, heat, passion, and all the more dangerous for being so rare.

“She chose to reject us and what we stood for a second time.”

“‘She’ is sitting right there, you know,” John said pointedly. He didn’t disguise his anger at Diana’s dismissal of their former team-mate - the woman who sat between him and J’onn, her fingers clutching her mace as though she were drowning and it was her last hope.

Batman listened to the arguments with one ear. Mostly, he watched Shayera.

He remembered her proud - always so upright and determined. Even as she handed him the Thanagarian plans, even as she watched them close the door on their council, even as she tendered them her resignation and left the house, she had held herself with the mien of a woman who’d known her worth and would never cede it to anyone or anything.

What had changed in that time? What had made her so compliant, so accepting?

Had guilt bowed Shayera down, draining her pride, leaving her only a quiet, pathetic dignity in her solitude?

Batman didn’t know. But he wondered.

Around him, the argument raged on. Wonder Woman was up in arms, and Lantern and Flash rallied against her. J’onn did not intervene and Superman looked as though he would like to speak, but he closed his lips about his words and only looked at Batman, as though expecting another argument from that point.

Batman gave him none. Diana had no need of him to fight her battles; she would not welcome his input. And while he agreed with her in some respects, he also knew that Shayera Hol was back in the League, and the only person who would make her leave was herself.

He recognised lost causes better than Diana.

“The decision isn’t up to you!” Lantern said sharply. “It was made by a simple majority. If she wanted to come back, she only had to return.”

“And she has,” Flash added.

Diana opened her mouth, and Shayera stood.

The movement was startling enough, from a quarter they had not expected. All heads turned to her, all eyes focused upon her. The only person Shayera looked at was Diana.

“I offer Blood Retribution.” She spoke the words without passion, without heat; cold, smothering ash to Diana’s all-encompassing inferno.

Blood Retribution: a form of combat originating from the warrior planet of Samothrip, where grievances could be fought out between adversaries until satisfaction was gained.

The men looked from the women to each other, and the Amazon’s eyes narrowed. “First Blood or Last Blood?” Diana asked, her eyes still icy.

“Whichever you prefer.”

“Now, wait a minute--”

It was as though Flash hadn’t even spoken. Neither woman looked at him as they challenged each other, eye to eye. “First Blood,” Diana said as she lifted her chin, and the warrior royalty of her background became even more pronounced.

 _At least she knows how far she can go,_ Batman thought dryly to himself. He understood why Diana was still angry, and why Shayera had offered retribution; that understanding kept him in his chair when Superman stood.

“I won’t allow this.”

The women turned to look at him, their faces beautiful and terrible in implacability. “You cannot stop it,” Diana stated, even as Shayera said, “It’s not yours to allow or disallow.” Neither looked at each other, only at Superman, and between the intent of their gazes, even the Man of Steel could not stand firm.

Batman felt a little niggle of all-too-human satisfaction at Superman’s back-down. Of course, he reflected as the women turned to leave, that left the others looking to him for intercession.

Beyond the door of the meeting room, there were still people hovering - curiosity was a trait of both human and metahuman. They parted before the two women, and if questions were asked, Batman heard no answers.

The door hissed shut behind them, with nobody attempting entry.

Finally, seeing that his team-mates had nothing to say, Batman stood, intending to follow the women to their destination. If he understood Shayera’s offer correctly, they’d be heading for the largest workout rooms - somewhere where Amazon and Thanagarian had space to fight - for that was what they would do.

_First Blood or Last Blood?_

_Whichever you prefer._

Shayera had left the choice in Diana’s hands, not truly knowing whether her former team-mate and friend was going to choose death, or merely satisfaction.

Lantern stood as Batman strode towards the door. “Are you going to intervene?”

The others stood then, whether in support of what they thought he was going to do or to follow the two women, Batman didn’t know. He wasn’t concerned about it.

“You overestimate my influence on Diana,” he said continuing on to the door, never looking behind. “The only man who’d get between those two right now is an innocent or a fool.” _And I am neither._ The rejoinder did not need utterance, it hung in the air between the quintet of men. His hand hovered over the control panel for the doors. “For the record, I wouldn’t stop them, even if they’d listen.”

The two women had issues to settle between them, and battle was the way they wished to settle them.

Were they any two other females from Earth, Shayera’s offer to Diana, and Diana’s acceptance of it would be fatal to their relationship. However, neither was ‘human’ as the culture in which Bruce Wayne had grown up defined it. Both had been raised and trained in warrior cultures, where women fought and were expected to do so well. Ritual battle was no stranger to them; indeed, ritual battle was the _only_ way to settle this matter between them.

Flash caught up to him a few steps out of the room.

“So that’s that?” The demand was bewildered, things had changed so swiftly - even for the Flash. “We just let them fight to the death?”

“First Blood,” Batman reminded him. “Not Last Blood.”

He understood their revulsion though. Something in him, the clinging tenets of the culture in which he’d been born and bred like Clark, John, and Wally, was horrified at the thought that a disagreement between women must end this way: with fists, not words. Women never fought.

Intellectually, Batman knew that these two would. For them, it was nothing strange.

Of course, the difference between intellect and emotion was as indecipherable as that between the knowledge that he couldn’t afford romantic entanglements and the way he responded to Diana beneath mask and armour and attitude.

“Would _you_ want to get in their way?” Superman asked Flash, coming up behind them.

“Uh, no.” Flash’s grimace didn’t have to be seen, it was heard in his voice.

They followed after their team mates in silence.

It was fortunate for them all that they were a good way behind the women when Flash piped up, “You know, when I imagined those two fighting and stuff, it was never like this.”

And Lantern spoke for them all when he said, “I’m not even going to ask.”

**strike and counterstrike**

As she faced Wonder Woman in the workout room, Shayera straightened her shoulders and inhaled deeply. It was a struggle to summon even a fragment of the spirit she’d once wielded as Hawkgirl, but she had nothing else with which to counteract the fierce fire of Amazonian rage within her one-time friend.

She owed Diana this fight.

She owed _herself_ this fight.

Atonement was very much a human concept, the idea that forgiveness - redemption - should cost something, should be felt. In Thanagarian culture, there was no forgiveness; one failed and was lost, there was no return to grace.

Shayera had been brought up learning that when she failed her people, when she betrayed her friends and colleagues, there would be no second chances. When the Thanagarians came to Earth, when she betrayed the League, when she double-crossed her people, she knew that there was no going back.

And yet the League had given her a second chance.

Something in her wanted to believe that she could atone.

Something else, older and hardened to the knowledge that betrayal was costly and beyond forgiveness, scoffed at the thought.

She’d laid down the offer to Diana in the full knowledge that she had not paid the full price of her atonement - not yet. Everything had a price: the difficulty lay in finding where the account was charged.

At least in this, she could discharge her dues.

Wonder Woman issued the opening blow, Shayera dodged and swung her mace in retaliation, and the fight was on.

The first blows were tentative, testing. They’d fought each other before in other, happier times, but this was no laughing matter. Strike and counterstrike, with her mace to even out the imbalance between Diana’s strength and her own, Shayera defended herself, but did not attack.

She had no will to attack.

She had no _opportunity_ to attack.

Nobody was pulling any punches. Shayera suspected that Wonder Woman didn’t want to pull her punches, and beneath Diana’s onslaught Shayera couldn’t _afford_ to pull hers.

They took to the air, Shayera launched herself out of Diana’s radius, and the Amazon followed her, light as a feather, graceful as an eagle - and just as predatory. She would not be cheated of her prey.

Kick and punch, block and ward, her mace blocked Diana’s low kick with jarring force, and she executed a mid-air backflip to elude the high punch. A pointless move: the Amazon launched herself behind her fist, holding the aerial advantage - gravity was not her enemy as it was Shayera’s.

Her wings ached from the aerobatics, but her pride would not let her back down, and her conscience required she at least hold Diana off, rather than grant the other woman an easy ‘kill.’ First Blood, not Last Blood, although if Diana had demanded Last Blood, Shayera was not entirely sure she would have denied it.

The mace swung heavy through the air, meeting Diana’s fist, and the slim hand with the steel grip yanked at it, dragging Shayera out of her hover to topple through the air.

Around her, the world spun dizzily. Diana had sent her into spinning freefall through the air.

It was nearly impossible to regain balance when tumbling, but Shayera had learned a thing or two through the years. One wing snapped out, adding drag to her haywire plummet - a good seven or eight yards of open space with a barely-cushioned floor at the end of it. As her body plunged down in a slightly more managed fall, held by straining wing-muscles, she snapped out the other wing and turned it into a controlled swoop. Her toes came within a few inches of the floor, but she rose again.

Her muscles screamed as she soared back up into the air, and her instincts, bred in muscle, bone, and feather, screamed at her to turn, to roll mid-air. She twisted, saw something dark flash behind her, and stopped dead, risking the fall in evasion of Diana’s fist.

Once again, they dived and spun and flew, and now a few of Shayera’s attacks found their mark in Diana, and more than a few of Diana’s attacks landed on Shayera.

Her blood was running, and running hot, coursing through her veins as it had when she struggled to save the woman and her daughter in the falling car. She’d forgotten the thrill of swooping and diving, of trying to avoid an enemy, of trying to outthink a friend. She’d forgotten the pulse of adrenaline, of blood pumping through her veins, of wind ruffling her feathers, cooling her hot blood with wind chill.

As she spread her pinions wide and free, Shayera remembered what it was like to spar with someone, to try out fancy moves and successfully elude her friend’s blows - a challenge worthy of a Lieutenant of Thanagar.

She’d forgotten how well this life suited her, how fitting she’d found her friendship with Diana.

Reality came back in the form of a hit to her jaw, solid, unyielding and unexpected. She slammed against the wall of the workout room, bruising limbs. The ground rushed up to meet her and such was her turmoil she couldn’t even land on her feet.

By contrast, Diana touched down lightly, a gentle settling to ground. Her pose was relaxed, and her breathing even, unwinded. Her hands curled lightly at her sides, no longer fisted, and her eyes were distant.

“First Blood,” she said, clinically, and Shayera tasted the wet tang of blood on her lip. First Blood, battle ended.

Disappointment blew through her, like cold ash after a fire. She shifted, moving abruptly, the better to get off her wings, trapped beneath her body.

A hand entered her personal space; beyond it, Diana’s expression was neutral. The angry goddess was appeased, and the fire no longer burned to sear. Wonder Woman would not actively support Shayera’s return, but nor would she protest it. Her anger had been temporarily satisfied, even if there was not, nor ever would be, payment enough for her sense of honour.

In that gesture, Shayera saw that they were equal, but they were not friends. The action was rendered distantly, without emotion, and something in her - that spark she had struggled to nurture - found tinder and glowed red-hot.

Shayera’s eyes narrowed as she accepted the hand up, using it to pull herself to her feet. And, as Diana pulled her up, she yanked the Amazon down.

Down into the swing of her mace.

Energised metal encountered flesh with a solid ‘thwack’ that reverberated through the room and Diana tumbled through the air, surprised by the unexpected attack.

Somewhere, there was a gasp from onlookers Shayera hadn’t even known were there, but they were irrelevant. This was between her and Diana alone. Her whole being focused on the woman who climbed to her feet, a gleam of wariness in her blue eyes.

As she met that glance, warrior to warrior, Shayera felt the fire in her own soul surge into flame.

**friendship and forgiveness**

The rules had changed.

She didn’t understand why Shayera had chosen to take her out after First Blood had been called. Blood Retribution went to First or Last Blood and that was all.

This was new.

So, too, was the fire in Shayera’s eyes as the other woman launched herself into the air. Her movements were definite and assured, without the hesitance they’d carried before. This time, Shayera was not paying lip service to Diana’s need for something to hit; this time, the other woman was out for blood.

Diana’s blood.

She let Shayera initiate the attacks this time, content to block and dodge and parry, without any punches or ripostes of her own. Before, she’d been acting on instinct, battle rage moving her with powerful force, now she took a few seconds to judge Shayera’s state of mind.

Her reluctance to strike was confusing the Thanagarian. Shayera had never known Diana to sit back and watch and calculate; she was more accustomed to seeing her wade into the fray, fists flying

Bruce had been more of an influence on her than he knew.

Then again, Diana could feel him watching them from the observation room. All the workout rooms had them, allowing playback and study of a warrior’s fighting style and weak spots. In addition to that, this workout room had an observation gallery, and Diana had already seen the multitude of colours, shapes and sizes that indicated that they had an audience.

The audience didn’t bother her. This was between her and Shayera, and one way or another it required settling.

As she dodged Shayera’s swing of the mace, Diana tried to do as Batman had taught her: take a step back and analyse why she felt as she did, what was causing her discomfort with Shayera’s re-entry into the League.

When the vote turned out in the dining room of Wayne Manor, Diana had felt betrayed anew. Not by Shayera, not even by J’onn or Flash, both of whom had made their partisanship clear, but by Clark. In truth, she had expected Clark to be with her and Bruce on the matter of whether Shayera should stay or go. He’d made his opinion of Shayera’s betrayal quite clear earlier.

She’d been surprised when John chose to abstain - surprised and not a little relieved. For all that Green Lantern was a soldier, aware of the sometime conflict between personal and professional, Diana knew how well that emotion could break down the professional mien of the warrior. She’d seen it among her own people.

Her own people.

They’d exiled Diana for breaking their laws - bringing men to the island and standing between them and the penalty. No forgiveness, no going back.

All actions had consequences. Since Diana had been reluctant to let the consequences fall upon her friends, she had taken the consequences on herself and accepted her exile.

The kick caught her in the belly. Momentary nausea threatened, before she pushed it away. Her eyes tracked the Thanagarian’s flight, the way she held her mace, the look on her face as Diana evaded her again.

Something in her was surprised that the men hadn’t yet intervened. She would have thought John or Flash, perhaps, would have something to say about their continuing fight, but there was silence from the observation gallery on that point.

They hovered in the air, and Shayera’s lips pulled back in a Thanagarian war cry, an ululation of intimidation and terror. Diana met the blow of the mace with a single hand, although the nullifying sphere of the mace’s head numbed her fingers.

Blue eyes stared into green, fierce will against fierce will, and there was no backing down.

Diana’s fingers were losing sensation. She lashed out with her leg, swiping Shayera to the side. The kick forced the other woman into a dive and swoop to maintain her balance before she could turn to face Diana again.

Why had Shayera hit out with the mace once Blood Retribution was ended? Was it another sign of untrustworthiness in the Thanagarian? Another betrayal of Diana and everything she stood for?

Betrayal was the key. Shayera had betrayed more than just her people. She had betrayed the League - a double-cross of mammoth proportions. Shayera had betrayed Diana, because Wonder Woman had stood before the people of the world and assured them that the Thanagarians meant them no harm, because Shayera said so. And because the world’s populace believed that Wonder Woman’s judgement was sound, they had trusted Shayera and the Thanagarians - until their allies became their jailers.

Clark had done the same: stood before the people of the world and given them his word, based on Shayera’s guarantee. His betrayal was as great as Diana’s, greater perhaps. Superman was known throughout the world, acknowledged as the foremost of Earth’s Heroes. Earth was not his home world, but he had made it his own, and protected it in his own way.

Yet Clark had forgiven Shayera, had opted to give her a second chance.

The thought made Diana lash out hard as Shayera came for her again. Her boot connected with the other’s jaw, a light kick, without the kind of force that could break a neck. A warning, not an ending.

In the months since Shayera had vanished from the face of the planet, Diana had wrestled with her refusal to forgive and forget, with the nub of anger she held against the other woman. Amazons did not forgive, it was not among their tenets, it was not in their nature.

Was Diana still an Amazon, though?

She blocked Shayera’s blows again and again, firmly, but without undue force. And as she did, she frowned.

There were some lessons that could not easily be unlearned. How to defend oneself, how to take out an opponent. Yet even an Amazon could learn to pause and take stock before she entered the fight. An old dog _could_ be taught new tricks and it only took one psychologist to change a light bulb, or so Flash assured her, as long as the light bulb _wanted_ to change.

Did Diana want to change?

She hurled Shayera across the room, watched the other woman tumble and dive, regaining her balance before swooping up once more.

She saw again the sparkle in the green eyes of her opponent. Shayera’s blood was up and coursing through her at this fight, with a spirit that Diana remembered, even through the clinging sting of betrayal.

They’d fought like this many times before. Unlike most of the men - even Clark who had grown up in Man’s World, and with the exception of J’onn - the two women were alien and stranger to the world they inhabited, with the training for battle and a fondness for action over debate or thought. They’d been kin of a sort, with the same kind of upbringing and the same fierce passion for life: warriors both, with a warrior’s need for practice in battle and a worthy foe.

Diana remembered the bouts with a kind of pleasure, a degree of satisfaction that no other fight had rendered her since Shayera’s departure from the League. When they fought like this, no fate of the world relied on their winning; their blows were hard, but not harsh. They were opponents, not enemies, and their purpose was united: to bring the other low.

They fought, more or less evenly matched, although Diana had the advantage in strength and manoeuvrability, and Shayera had the advantage in ferocity and ruthlessness.

Earlier, Diana had been the dominant one in emotion: her anger fuelling her blows. In truth, she could have ended the battle earlier, but an easy win had not been her goal. Blood Retribution was not about winning: it was about paying debts and taking consequences. Shayera had owed a debt to Diana.

Did the continuation of the Blood Retribution mean Diana owed a debt to Shayera?

The question stopped Diana dead in the air, and Shayera’s mace caught her hard along the jaw, cracking her head around and casting her to the ground. Without superhuman strength, the blow would have broken Diana’s neck, and the fall would have left her incapacitated for weeks. As it was, her neck muscles would ache for several hours, and the lip that seeped rusty blood into Diana’s mouth would not heal until sunset.

She propped herself up on one elbow as Shayera landed before her. “First Blood,” the Thanagarian said, and the pleasure of the half-smile spreading across her lips was matched by an emotion Diana had not expected to feel after such a defeat: tolerant amusement.

“Second Blood,” she countered, and saw the other woman nod in acknowledgement. “Are we finished?”

_Are we finished?_

The words implied that each side had been repaid what needed repaying.

_Are we finished?_

They implied an ending, a conclusion, a completion.

_Are we finished?_

The question was honest, and an honest answer was given, seen in Shayera’s hesitation, a momentary return of the uncertainty.

Diana wanted it finished. She was not among her people - of them, but not among them - not anymore. New patterns must be learned, and this was one way to set them. Forgiveness would not come without a cost to Diana, but Shayera had paid her own price to return - in self-assurance and certainty of her place.

_Let it be finished._

“Yes.” Shayera held out a hand, and a small, fierce smile with it. “We’re finished.”

And what went unsaid between them was that they were finished, but not ended. One chapter was now closed and another opened.

It was there in the gleam of the other woman’s eyes, reflecting Diana’s own satisfaction, and in the way they turned towards the door in unison and walked out, not touching but clearly together.

Outside, people pouring out of the gallery - newer colleagues, not their original team-mates. None of these newer members approached them, both intimidated and wary of the pair. But, alerted by a sixth sense, Diana turned her head and saw Batman’s nod as he stood by the observation room door, caught the faintest quirk of his lips in a wry, lopsided smile before he moved away. For what it was worth, _he_ understood.

It was only when they were in the lounge, Shayera with her beer and Diana with her lemonade, that Superman and Flash joined them.

Diana gave Clark one steady look, and he nodded, finally seeing what he had not comprehended in the meeting room before. The fight had been necessary, to repay the old debts owing and leave the slate clean. She’d known he didn’t like the idea of the two women fighting, but he could not argue with the results when presented with them.

Flash was more verbose, true to his nature, putting his puzzlement to words. “Wow, that was some fight, Di, Shay? I thought you two were never going to forgive each other.”

Neither woman corrected him. But Diana turned her head a little and caught the gleam of tolerant amusement in Shayera’s eyes, even as her friend made some delicately pointed reply.

For them, the fight _was_ forgiveness

 


End file.
